I rolled my eyes. “What isn’t.”
“Exactly.”
I glanced in Connor’s direction. “This isn’t really my scene. But it would be disingenuous to say a French poetry reading in the East Village is me either.” I handed him two of the drinks as I juggled the others.
“But you wouldn’t know, because you’ve never done it.”
He set down the drinks and checked his watch. “I’ll have you home by midnight.” He extended his hand. “The French keep their word.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I promised to text Connor if I needed to be rescued and followed Christophe out to Eighth Avenue.
Christophe touched my arm and pointed to a cab coming across Horatio Street.
“So, are you ready for some French poetry?”
I reached down and zipped my purse. “Sappho was Greek.”
“Whatever you say, American girl. I think you will love it.”
We got in a cab, and I watched him watch the city go by, admiring the way his mouth was consistently set in a playful smile. The novelty of escaping my comfort zone was oddly satisfying.
The weight of my mistake from earlier still loomed, but it was beginning to feel more abstract.
“I probably should have asked before, but—do you have a boyfriend?”
I looked instinctively down at my left hand. Even after a year of not wearing my wedding band, I still expected to see it.
“Why?”
“Because it might be, I don’t know, weird to ask another man’scopineto a romantic poetry reading.”
“Ah. No boyfriend.”
“So, how do you feel?”
“About being single?”
He laughed. “I mean, how do you feel right now? In this moment?”
“Is this like ‘what do you do’ except you don’t actually want to know the answer?”
“It’s just a question, Samantha. How do you feel?”
“It’s Sam. And I feel ... open. But I’m not sure why,” I said honestly.
He laughed. “Openis a funny word. But I like the way it sounds.”
The cab pulled up to a brownstone on East Tenth Street. We walked up to the parlor floor apartment where a woman with long black hair and a stylish black jumpsuit greeted us both with a double air-kiss.
“Amelia, this is my new friend Sam. She’s an American lawyer.” He winked and picked up two glasses of white wine from a waiter holding a tray of wine glasses.
“I didn’t think people hired waitstaff for house parties anymore,” I whispered, watching a tray of figs and blue cheese pass by.
“Like I said, we keep the Parisian lifestyle wherever we go.”
Christophe was a kind and attentive date. He introduced me as his “newest New York friend” and insisted that everyone speak English.
